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But so was the first soldier. He stared down at the blood pouring from his stomach in disbelief, slumping to his knees.

Andthatwas why the blade would remain in Marth’s chest until a healer removed it themselves. I glanced at the children. Their eyes were just as wide as mine likely were. One of the boys had thankfully covered the eyes of a little girl, and he stared helplessly at me.

I had to get them out of here.

Movement in the street. The second soldier spat onthe woman’s body, picked up the knife from the ground, and added it to an empty sheath on his ankle.

One of the children sneezed.

I flinched as the sound carried through the night, and my heart thundered until I could feel it vibrating in my throat.

An older child had slammed a hand over the mouth of the younger child, and both of their faces were so, so pale in the dim light, it was as if they were already corpses.

The second soldier smiled. And then he turned toward the cart.

For the first time, hatred engulfed me until I could barely breathe, could barely think around my loathing for the soldiers. I’d hated many things since this war started. Regner and all he stood for. Eryndan and his useless arrogance. The fae wardens who’d refused to ally with us.

But this? This was different. I’d never felt this kind of hate for the soldiers before. For humans. The people I’d been raised among. Those who were here on orders.

But it wasn’t those orders that made these soldiers steal and rape and kill. No, they did those things with a sick kind of pleasure—and that pleasure was evident in the whooping cheers of a group in the distance, followed immediately by terrified screams from several women.

The laughter grew even louder, drowning out the sound of the footsteps of the soldier who now stalked toward the children, his hand on his sword.

People who would do this—invade a foreign land for no reason other than they wanted what their neighbors had and felt entitled to it—people who would commit such atrocities and find them entertaining…

They deserved any retribution that came their way.

My own power was nowhere to be found. I might never find it again.

So I’d kill this man with my sword instead.

It was different now, without Lorian and the others standing with me. On the other side of the street, I could almost hear Galon grinding his teeth as I slowly got to my feet.

But the soldier didn’t hear me. He was too busy taunting the children.

“Come out,” he crooned. “I’ll make it quick. If you force me to drag you out of there, it will be worse.”

A dark, black feeling encompassed me, filling me as if I breathed it in with every inhale. It was frightening, how much hatred flowed through my veins.

Hatred and…rage.

I was tired. So, so tired.

But the rage was fuel. The hatred was speed.

The soldier was leaning down, still taunting the children as I leaped.

He must have heard me, because he began to straighten, to turn. He held his sword in his left hand, and I approached from the right.

He should have protected himself with his right arm. He’d have lost the arm, but he might’ve had a chance.

Instead, he made a stupid choice. He tried to switch his sword from his left hand, fumbling it. My sword sliced through his neck, and his body—already unbalanced— crashed into me.

I barely kept my feet. Below me, the children were as silent as the space between my heartbeats.

“Prisca,” Galon hissed. He was already moving, storming toward the first soldier. It took me only a second to understand why.

The thud of boots on stone, each step perfectly in sync.